Lust

Catholic boy with the perfectly trimmed fingernails, I want you to put me in positions that will test your faith. I want to sink my teeth in your morals much like yours can sink in my flesh. I want to hear you whisper in my ear with the fervour you don while reciting your Hail Marys. I want to be the reason for your oral fixation. My name has two syllables, you will recite them when you have been bad. Your innocence is a disguise I want to unravel. Speaking of unraveling, I have a few items of clothing for you to attend to. You will worship at the altar that is my body like you attend mass. I will be the reason you proclaim “forgive me father, for I have sinned.”

There’s you. And then there’s me. I was his trial period. You, however, are the girl he loves. Never feel insecure about my existence because he left me. I was never his home, I was drunken sex and sloppy declarations of love.
When he tells you he loves green, it has nothing to do with the time we fucked on his couch and I kept my green dress on.
He’ll tell his friends and family about you from the get go. I never warranted an explanation to anyone who saw me in his arms. We were simply two people who happened to be in the same place at the same time.
Everything I know about him doesn’t matter, he will tell you much more. Some stories will feel incomplete, that’s because I was there when they happened. But he won’t say my name, I am forgotten. He will say only yours and that is enough.

He will remember the wine stains
on my dress, my bruised feet giving way from misjudgment and 4 inch heels. A
hazy recollection of straddling and calling out for a god who was nowhere at
that hour and is nowhere now. What he won’t remember is how comfortable and
safe I felt in his arms, let alone the fact that it was the first time I had
felt that way in months.

Maybe he will remember my name, after
all, it was profusely repeated like a child calling for its mother. Maybe I
will remember how nice he was before he didn’t call. Maybe I will accept it for
what it was, a single moment that managed to eclipse all others in its
category.

I hope he doesn’t remember how
eager I was to give my number, digits trembling from my lips. A tremble much
like what his lips did to mine. I hope I don’t remember his face, so that I
don’t gravitate toward him if I ever see him again.

I hope this doesn’t define me,
because I loved every second of it. I hope it doesn’t define him because he is
still the nicest boy I ever kissed.

I did it again. I let
him sink beneath my skin and take over all my senses. Saying his name is the
hardest part of my day. He has me playing house again: I took up a reading
corner and his favourite shirt. Look up the definition of “fucked” and you’ll
see my face underneath, synonyms: “naïve, gullible, easy, Nora.” And that’s not
the fucked up part. It’s how much I love it. It’s how he makes me wear my
favourite dress and he compliments me for half an hour non-stop. It’s how much
my parents love him that they keep asking about him a week later. It’s how it
took him 48 fucking hours to be relevant in my life again.

It’s also how he
said one apology and things were okay instantly. People spend “forever” making
up for how he fucked up. It’s how he knows he’ll appear on my blog, like it’s
an insignificant ritual of my warped up writer dreams. It’s how he looks at
other girls, never me. It’s how he lets me fuck up like it’s “our thing.” It’s
one thing, it’s another, but it’s how he’ll never be him. He knows this, yet he
doesn’t falter. I am not his and he is not mine but he gets by… And I don’t.
Therein lies the problem.

We all have secrets; it is the way of the world. You don’t just walk up to people and spew your life story. Although, I did meet one of my best friends that way; a fact that she vehemently denies to date. Nobody is an open book (well not completely, refer to Rumpelstiltskin.)

Even the unfortunate people with no personalities, have secrets. Their moves are predictable but at the end of the day the vast wasteland they call their brain has a few dull encounters that although we have no interest to excavate, know nothing about. (Thank God)

Then there’s the rumour mill. Most of the times it’s full of shit and other times has an ounce of truth. But it is never unadulterated. There are three sides to a story; my version, your version and the truth. I’ve heard a few rumours about myself and I never seek to refute or dispel them, mainly because I have no time for that shit. But also, like medusa, I’ll have to deal with it by cutting off the head and who really knows for certain the source of such malicious blab! Things are not openly made known for obvious reasons. It’s a dog eat dog world and you gots to keep some things to yourself or else you’ll be eaten! Well not literally…unless you live in a remote island with cannibals.

Before Facebook and Twitter, normal humans kept their love lives somewhat private. The rumour mill only got hold of the identity of Captain douche-bag’s latest slutty victim a few weeks after he had uhmm taken that car for a ride (te-hee the euphemism was spot on.) Not that such information was a secret; it just got out a lot slower than it does now. Yes, social networks have robbed us of our privacy, but in all fairness, we freely succumb to this invasion of privacy. And that’s just it, it is your choice to “rat yourself out”. But sometimes it is only 50% your choice.

I was having a conversation with some of my terribly intelligent female friends and the number one thing that constantly came up was guys that kiss and tell. Knowledge of a man’s sexual encounters is very rarely a bad thing. He gets props for that kind of thing…barbarians, I tell you! It’s not the same for women. No woman wants details of their sexual exploits as the topic of other people’s conversation; unless of course it is with her close friends (that’s like four or five girls at the most.) and the conversation is to NEVER be repeated! So I have come up with a plan…THE LOVE CONTRACT. Before you engage in any form of intimacy with a man he has to sign said contract to keep the events secret. A life or death contract. Simple as pie. But then again, it is 2012…be a big girl, what is done in the dark will come to light. If you have the balls to do it, have the balls to walk it out when it gets out.

Nora Kirabo

I am a 25-year-old Ugandan blogger / lawyer / procrastinator / wine-enthusiast. The metaphorical “pot of gold” is an attempt to understand the heart and the mind but greatest of all to tear down the beliefs we have been taught to blindly follow especially those relating to image.